sleight thrusts, outward, from nowhere unheard. generous words, falling, have no life till they wreak my lips. spiralled meaning, unfocussed, recognition spacing along. seems pays to sing, twist of the back breaking line, upon line up on line. never seen always, seam, holding sutures a part of perennialiaty. ear rings fractured, subtle, hue pounds sliding upon breath. watch. thunderous sounds spill, disguise, scream insults one voice. hammer breath, storm, complement of incontainability increases. listen with eyes, listing, flickers time spoken in mists of light. and so free, body, face in front between. then sit. still.

Deceptively simple living. Deceptively simple, yet with a mere sleight of hand there thrusts up into our existence a new reality. Thrusting outwards from nowhere. Unheard but unerringly unmissable. Here suddenly I laugh, almost maniacally. Sleight of hand. In the tricksters sense. An egg appears from my ear and I didn't even feel its' presence. A failure appears from nowhere and its unheard voice calls me back to despair. It's not so hard really, to see what happens. 'We don't see things as they are but as we are' goes some old Talmudic saying. So of course, coasting along, easy like happy like calm, suddenly I say it and, bang, up the junction, here I am, my generous words smashing the silence and yet silence. Sitting in here, nowhere, words falling like confetti in windy corridors, there is no distance. But like confetti, a touch of time and tears tears them away and these words have no life, no time of life, until they till the soil of language, till they wreak my lips with aspects of alterations, my voice including itself echoing off walls and ears. As mute I sit invisible. As voice I stand unheard. 2

'Then write, dear boy, write' some nob from nowhere calls, valiant effort of value and valence. The words crawl from my pen and their spiralled meaning creeps onto the page yet only ever unfocussed recognition, blurred image through the gaps that let the tears come to the fore. If it was to work, then I would never know, the sleight of hand transferring the pain from here to nowhere, nobody, someone who feels it arrive as though pulled out of their ear with no prior presence. A simple trick perhaps present, yet not quite visible since we never really stop to look at the spacing along which the words lie. And then I wish I wrote lyrics, a learnt by heart lament for their time and it seems that it pays to sing. Still sitting comfortably I thrust the twist of the back breaking at you - hear the ligaments frission - but even this refuses and so I brutalise your eyes, spit in your ears and now no longer name the breaking sounds of the back but rather attempt to ring the twist of the back breaking in the line, line upon line upon line, codified, encoded, forcing the line up on line to line your eyes until finally the words come up for air, this time in your nowhere, on line in your line main line straight line break line break. Now, now, now; hear me now, watch me, stare, feel it, stamping across the line, crossing the line, crossed out, ripped out, ripping and writhing the line out with line upon line upon line upon line up on line. Now now now now know. I want to fuck it up, this never seen always present absence of line and space and voice and face. Fuck it up so that it no longer works and instead sits on the dole, scrounging its life away, smoking dope from day to day and listening to iggy pop and ambient dub while fucking and fucking the day away. Fuck work and fuck it working. Who wants everything to work, fucking machine-texts written by robots with eyes glazed from years of disguised buggery, the true sleight of hand the truth espoused by spouses supported forever with nuptial greetings of boredom ironing their seams into their oh so pathetic trousers of nylon and plastic effluent dug from the ground by machines, working like machines, fucking like machines. Slice their arms back and rip their larynx from their throat, suturing it back together with their asshole until their breath smells as bad as they sound. A part of me always apart from me, distance given together yet aside from this no longer yet always in a form of perenniality that beggars belief and wishes for an eternal return to the same moment repeated and then again. Then again, we all love and above all we all speak and above all we all love and above all we all speak. And my ears ring. At the stiff little fingers gig screaming again, my lover stands in front of me screaming again, sweat drops forming through the nape of the neck hair and the smell of sex returning me to earlier in the day and the dressing we do, before we go out and the music and the noise and my ears ring. And my unborn baby kicks. And I am drawn around, reach around from behind to feel the stomach and womb through the cotton, and again feel my baby kick and then again, we all love above all. And life fractures for an instant and crashes into the colours in hues never to be repeated, never returned to and always returnable, always back again, always here, my hand sliding down her belly and the baby pounds upon my hand and my breath pounds upon her breath and I stand there, rushing upwards almost, still standing there, gushing blood pounding upon breath pounding upon body pounding and I stand there and watch, alive. Thunderous sounds spill and crash against the walls. Battering the senses, whipping my breath away if I step inside, catching my body in its grip, the force felt by me. The force can be felt just as powerfully with the breath of the other, with words exhaled in a disguise of calmness. The voice of reason is rarely raised, rarely does it scream insults and spit abuse; "to raise one's voice is to enter not a realm of reason but of unreason". The philosopher never argues. Or rather, the philosopher argues but never fights. 2

This pure will. Whilst I can retreat back into mind and retain a semblance of control over my thoughts even whilst my body is constrained by cell walls. listing gently as you rest your head on your arm and recline with a candle touching the wind that flickers to your side. wordlesly. but rather increases its importance. Once given never removed. covered in a layer of dust and with the dull edge of tarnish developing an air of age. A process of life that is the gathering of being constitutes my Being as a being. all you have is the wake. is a freedom that is intimately my own. Every night at the same time. with your eyes. This bundle. complementary. with no 'I' behind them but which are unimaginable without an 'I'. falling as the lock snapped into place. But always beware. gravel spat from the souls of your feet as you race frantically up the garden path. rough patches of plaster. if anyone does this. is only and always intangibly and ineffably present. There is time spoken of here. its own smell. silently. That character looks different to me than it does. though. contingent. For if we do this. Bundles of perceptions. consisting of two globes in the stem and three steps at the top. Memories layered upon memories. I remember. must be bundled. that reminds the butchers shelves in a supermarket. rather. The text as the sails. Solitary confinement. Even on my own I am with people. modelled on primal elements of existence such as earth. water fire. And enjoy this present. somewhere. of the nuts and bolts variety. freedom to do. the entry into my past of the prison walls removes elements of me to replace them with the other. Freedom conceptualised in terms of choice or action or will. air. filled with the breath of being. Brass. Listen. I was lucky as well. As in different memories of time spent waiting in dole offices watching the numbers click away on the counter. The weight of the door. in the midst of the light that you read by. to be. Freedom for. Everything was mine. time spoken of another time spoken of.. pipes running along the bottom of the walls and a floor that stops at the entrance leaving the parquet exposed like the edge of a puzzle resting on the dining table. getting a job as a landing cleaner fairly early into my sentence and so having a lot more time out of my cell compared to the vast bulk of the cons. whatever it is. replaceable. The nuts and bolts of life. prison is not an unpleasant memory.. This process however must have no limits. the moment of storm which must complement the calmness of reason. The door would close at eight o'clock. that's what these memories become for me. Three candlesticks sit on a window sill in a room filled with all the signs of renovation. Each one has its own taste. for all you have is the bars. unconstitutable without the other. And then sit. of the size of the world around.To philosophise with a hammer is the breath of the hurricane. exposed brickwork. and the face escapes as soon as you think of it. that Nietzsche screams from his mountain tops. the flap in the door dropping after the screw checked. a figure. 2 . It removes the freedom of solitarity. We all call out again. if you do this. of the solitariness of being me that was the absolute certainty of my presence. we may see free from restraint of voices echoing nearby a body and face in front of us that stands stock still yet moves effortlessly between the gaps that the words leave in their wake. locatable in the space my body fills. Attempt no more to understand and to run through my words like they are grass trod underfoot. fulfill it. eludes. of writing of them here. I become what the other makes me. its own soul even though each sliver slips from grasp as soon as I attempt to grasp it. The wind rips the sails it can at other times fill. technically. the flatulence of wisdom. the confinement of the solitary.. The memories fill this picture. I also had an in-cell toilet rather than a bucket. irrelevantly determining. of space. though in Wandsworth I would spend twenty hours a day in a single cell with a toilet and my books for company. the smell of enormity. an en-suite. to have. listen and watch. it exists as mine. gathered. even the powerlessness was mine. Prison is the most intimate raping of freedom. The intention and will to become what I am. however. Yet at the same time there is something peculiar in thinking of them. slipping through the bars of language to silently whisper in your ear. My memories are memories of. Now even my privacy eludes me. working at a press churning out thousands of bolts. brought together. is expressed in terms that suggest a lack. with the words ringing. the force can be uncontainable but its very uncontainability does not make it diminished in its reality. fill it full of memories. sketch in the lines of an ethereal presence that forms in front of our eyes. that which is most proper to me. simply a memory. Still. This is the basic model (metaphor) organic. as though they somehow create a person. These things are not unpleasant memories. without sleight of hand but by mere presence. a freedom from. I never spent any time in solitary confinement. Like trying to remember the feeling of being a child. They stand together. the loud metallic nose of a dead weight.

Wandsworth and Wormwood Scrubs. except that it automatically assumes only a minority of the inmates will ever be helped out of the situation in which they commit crime. clean and with a good set of machine-tools and a decent instructor. They're attractive items. Whatever. Top money in the nick was about this. It assumes the job of containment as the basic bottom line and offers an escape route that resembles an assault course. a task infinitely impossible given the situation 2 . this involving either going underground for those with any amount of time left to serve and who the authorities thought worth re-capturing. The atmosphere was that little bit better though. the odd battery for the radio or a packet of biscuits. a bit like working abroad for a few months or maybe even a few years. never having any great desire to 'occupy my time'. at least from the stories that went round and the number of escapes that occurred. with the difference that they saw prison as just another environment to work. Appropriate name too. I can tell the story of these candle sticks and tell part of my story at the same time. mainly on lathes and power presses. the sort used in metalwork at schol to write names on a key ring or some such trinket made of aluminium. It merely enabled the space for reason to enter. Despite the great disparity in our lives it tended towards a common approach to prison that saw it more neutrally. Not that it should be seen as an innocent and justified organisation. something I wanted to keep my distance from anyway given that I wasn't in any hurry to stay. I opted for the training. Layers of siginifcation are beginning to build around these objects. Of course the screws would probably argue that the lack of a financial incentive weeded out those who really wanted to do the course and added the motivation to work enough to succeed. the politics that brought me here. Not really anything to shout about. who saw prison as just a way-station on the journey. or keeping out of trouble for the smaller time crooks. I was a 'political' and so tried to maintain enough distance from the basic activity of the place to enable me to treat this period of confinement as merely an occupational hazard. That would be to deny the deep hatred and lines of unencroachable allegiances and hostilities that existed. making the metal waste-paper baskets so common in offices. 'Made in December '91 by Matt Lee'.50 a week to buy fags with. They were made in December 1991. For most of the people most of the time escape was not an option. The problem was staying out it seemed. We had a decent workshop. I never saw anything that even hinted at anything other than simple containment. Anyone has to really want to come out of the environment they are in before they are ever going to get anywhere and even then the chances are real low. the date scratched on the bottom along with my name. for patience to suggest itself and for time to become a weapon rather than a restriction. It's these sort of details that make a lot of difference in prison. Given my dislike for working in yet another factory at that time though. involved continuing various other activities. Christina lived in Smethwick at that time. the ongoing war of position that is the very existence of a prison. Paying the training schemes more than the basic work-rates would encourage the cons to attend simply out of practical necessity. whereas the training schemes only paid £2. through this original meaning is not lost. a civvy with a conscience and a sound engineering background. Most of the jobs were mind-fuckingly boring. to carry on ducking and diving. we are entwind in our existence. mainly Wandsworth. the 'project' we finished with. So. we'd got a place on the Blackpatch estate before I went down. not that many of the blokes would get such a job on the outside either so what does it matter? All for the grand total of £5. the odds stacked against us. As something to allow us a little something for our work. Maybe this gives the necassary credence to the shitty ideas of screws about not making a way out of the system too easy. there was definitely less ducking and diving going on all the time. It's a rather amatuerish engraving. something I would happily purchase from someone else and probably the most successful expression of a manual skill I've achieved yet.originally made to symbolise the three members of the family they now take on the role of representing merely the children. as something that wasn't worth raging against all the time. and there is some truth in this way of thinking. Whether they want to attempt to sort out those who get sent down and get them off crime or whether they just want to lock 'em up. The whole system is designed to maintain the status quo. Maybe this is the wrong way to put it however as it may give the impression of acceptance. This proved to be enough for half an ounce of baccy and either papers or matches. I transferred to Featherstone near Wolverhampton. After a few months in local prisons like Brixton. They are the result of the training course I took in prison. So most of the cons never took the training. particularly one that was inside a prison exacerbating the deprival of freedom inherent in the way such places automated a persons very existence. As I'd worked in engineering before going to prison. Welding chairs together. Getting out of prison isn't that hard it seems. but that's for another time. something that happened at some point in the course of political activity. in Featherstone we had to work during the day. whereas for me the work. I have a certain pride in these items though. a certain history that belongs to them as much as it does to me.50. something I wasn't too keen on. never both. as the blokes going seemed generally more interested in thinking about their future. I chose the lathe course and never really regretted it. I made it with one of the vibrating pens. because of the fact that it was training. In that sense I liked to think I had an approach that was similiar to those cons who were professional thiefs. The course started a few weeks after I got into Featherstone and was a lot more relaxed in its approach to working conditions than the factory situations. no real concern with working for 'job satisafction' or the like. spraying furniture all day long dressed in overalls and masks in sweltering heat.

worked. In prison I read a lot. I lay here and see such beauty I have only before seen in you. within a line of thought. a distance reflected by an almost nostalgic longing for the centrality of that experience where life was not only words. For me this ill-fitting piece sears through me). Every day. piles of letters. itself wanting. And in front of it all my tree sits swaying in the wind. wire and lights of the outside of the wing. within a cycle. 2 . But even then a distance emerged. aside from collecting meals. Months later. communicating with a huge unseen layer of fellow residents. I ate. but for me. occasionally looking up to see the tree. experience that has now occurred. Three. And yet today I see only the bars. dole offices or doctors and dentists.a victorian shithole with buckets for toilets and rats for company. Locked in for two day. wanting. I touch my skin and wish it were you doing so. Pages to my partner and a mixture of incessant discussions of ideas. The text may be wanting for them. so the text becomes bracketted. wanting time. somehow enabling a bridge to the outside. the clouds illuminated in pinks and blues so soft. slept. (the text is bracketted. writing that has now occurred. And life itself. I would sit for four or five hours and read. written in scrawled. more settled in the longer term prison and my cell was stuffed full of books. four hundred books. Trashy westerns. Ten or fifteen letters would come every day and I would write two or three. so human. On the second day inside I was in Wandsworth . Other times the bars dissapear and I see only the sky. wanting experience. again noting the naivete of the early life. time that has now occurred. feelings and thoughts. A regularised monotony for which I was not in the least responsible. Sometimes I look out of my window and can only see the bars. sit at a table by the barred window. the colors so beautiful the pinks so gentle last remnant of the suns life the blues so deep everlasting and cool. reading the only things left in the cell as the library was out of bounds. and moved in the timetables of others and felt happy to allow this for the letters and books prevented me from being the one who was regularised and distanced me from the monotonised body. in blue fading ink and dated 13th July 1991. wanting writing. after 8. as a moment. it's branches stretching toward that beautiful sky. which has a power disproportionate to the writing in its ability to evoke memory in me.of general illegality once they escaped and the impossibility of making a living in this country without being traceable by the coppers via inland revenue. love. transcribed from a prison notebook. we close. so I felt. almost childish handwriting. and as with all good parenthesis.

the writing a move in a play that suffers from nothing and dissolves into barely meaningful revery. from something that almost attempts to breach sense.0 To: FOP-L@VM. when I take time to notice. the absorption possible in the text. they gather and reveal and unfold and gradually. where does it go. such as> Date: Fri. a revelation of this effect. The sounds of hundreds of men lost and an isolation deeper than any I found in a cell can descend at times. nobody knows. time. Perhaps add in 'our minds' and certain 'categories' such as space. Silence never sits by me any more. Temporary resonates tempestuous. nobody knows. a pointing that is too often assumed to be 'referential'. When I queue and send this (close and stamp the letter (edit and delete the text (scrawl and scribble my notes))) I go to bed and feel the touch of skin on skin. Texts affect and the subtleties can be read and reread and reading itself becomes the game. is the ability to gather sense from such 'non'-sense. that I can choose to reject or accept but which feel inevitable. somehow.this may be. a priori) experience of 'objects' and perhaps even 'forms' . Of course this becomes more complicated in words where no 'object' such as a tree is available. As long as we are within language. yet is for me the most valuable in the world and can never come from a text. but inevitably pressing in. But still the people are distant.AOL. tempting. something misty and incongruous The peculiar thing. its 'meaning'. Where does it start. that assumes each word has a seperate 'object' somewhere that gives the word.COM> Subject: Temporary Content-Type: text/plain. And in prison the absorption was a way of survival and succour. I) MIME-Version: 1. and here theories of meaning can either resort to reducing everything to an object. amongst others. like Kant. anyways. electronic or paper. The word 'tree' for example being meaningful through our knowledge of trees. One of the things a number of language focussed philosophers dwell on is 'nonsense' poetry. I've always loved the touch and feel of books. charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit X-Mozilla-Status: 0001 Content-Length: 6371 Take a word. the warmth of anothers blood. anyword. history etc can be derived from something that pre-exists ( that is 'prior to' experience.) the body 08 Nov 1996 11:16:12 +0000 From: Matt <matt_lee@mistral. But somehow the text is still a line to myself. And now the letters are electronic.Fri Nov 08 11:18:07 1996 Message-ID: <3283167A. temping. that is. to what might be called 'original forms' (Plato) or else a break can be made with referential theories and we can take another path. Language points away from itself however. the window of my cell replaced by a glimmering screen and a humming computer. Except that there is something here that was forever gone inside.PURDUE. In the end words help(. Or perhaps we can 2 . roughly. a way to life.5284@mistral. A ripple of sense. Texts work.0 (Win95. A vestige of meaning ripples through the surface though.I read and read and read. Today I still read and read and read but now the monotony is mine.CC. The reading is constrained. beyond appearances. a reality forms.EDU CC: Cybermind <CYBERMIND@LISTSERV. a personal haven inside a prison> X-Mailer: Mozilla 3. restricted and sometimes almost strangled by routines and timetables that I choose. From . We pull against chains and crash against walls yet break free of language we cannot. That feeling was so easy to forget. feel as other as the routines of prison.

and yet such a wish is immediately ridiculous. some body. They were writers and so the play held a certain curiosity. dancing amongst natures effluent. thus the words refer only to themselves and the meaning we derive is from the difference between the words rather than the words themselves. aspects of soul. bulky coats and over wrapped scarfs. This 'structure' of language (hence the term 'structuralists' for those that agree with this) derives from a linguist called Saussure. Through the park. to 'cognise' me. of vision. That is. Of necessity perhaps there must be deferral but there is. the voice of the dialogue. throwing legs abandoned into the musty browns and ochres. the whisper of wishes. a drive to be remembered. living. This is often suggested it seems. The play revolves around words and content yet eludes elucidation. At times a word can be something elusive. too easily seen as certain tricks or ploys to move the narrative along then reach its climax with the twist.reduce any contact and reference problems by assuming language is 'free-floating'. memory and desire. to be some sort of immortality drive in the writer. never achieved difference. never ending. Temporary. I would never achieve such a desire and even to suggest this is the 'real reason' someone writes would be to miss completely the attempt to embody. we write then write of our writing. Transient. budding and shedding. at best a drive for recognition but this suggests a desire fo the other to know me. Soft suns and cold winds. The classic argument is that to define a words meaning you use words and thus this process goes on forever. also. of mind. into the night sky forming eddies and wakes as they rise above the hills. feeling the need to lay down some past. inevitably. And then it all gets well wierd. Like the smoke from the ciggarette. that 'cat' only means what it does because we also know words like 'dog' etc. of lust. Repetition and difference of course most often reduces to plot substance. chattering mouths and the sound of a word. Passing. the concentration on irrelevant irreverence. for example. 2 . And then it all gets well wierd as words dissappear and only difference remains. the difference. a system that has meanings because of the 'interplay' of words with each other. washing gently through the seasons. under siege and often lonely. rising in front of the lamp on my desk. children kicking footsteps forward. Machado writes somewhere that 'they eye you see isn't an eye because you see it but because it sees you' and this is the drive. to form blue boiling clouds of desire. In part it isn't even the attempt to get another to see how I see but simply to get another to see that I see. I watched with a certain jealousy almost. Each aspect laces into our past/present/future as we wade through life. the sheer length sometimes forcing the reader to plough through. feeling the desire to go beyond the desire to write. a drive to leave a legacy. some work. blacks. Repetition and difference I once heard a character tell another in a play. An interminable process of deffering that has a notion of time linked to it by Derrida as he combines the term 'difference' with the term' defferal' in the french word 'differAnce'. We speak and then speak of our speaking. the crunch and rustle of regenerative death washed against the shore. to wade amongst the leaves of time. dissipating inevitably in front of me. But this fails to acknowledge the base rythmn of instinctual rhetoric. of hatred and humanity. Reds. the passion of the polemic. everpresent. I want rather to spew my life into the air. Then perhaps a word can remain. kicking leaves into the air. brown mudstains and puddles of joy.

So we stand on the balcony. Frozen. though this now 2 . The flat is filling with smoke. my imagination too weak and my mind too textual. Who talks of hope in hell? I shake as I write this. for me. cannot reach any higher. I wrote. explosions rip through the air and crash against the walls that surround us. How does one tell another of their life? The desire to respond is so immense that I am wary of the response alone existing and of the words stealing my soul from me as they skip across screens in anothers place. even for an instant. Just wait. a fireman reaches up to the floor below on his platform . There is nothing we can do now. I live in language and this dawning. Watch. threatened my self as the words of others became the meal in my mouth. design faults preventing platforms from being of use. four hours after being trapped and with the fire above and below us. Pictures in the paper show kids in ball gowns and mohicans. Three hours have now gone since we saw the blaze and realised we were trapped. for once. I am a writer and a philosopher.). We clamber over and later reach the ground. then deleted to replace with the 'correct' version. trivialities of the day. Tell them how I live? Do I throw out a text full of mundanities. built in 1968. only to miss the point in an attempt to reach out ('through the wires' the cliche goes). the lift is broken and the stairwell is impassable. on the 11th floor of a British tower block. Below us the firemen fail to reach us. Eventually. Momentary Being alive is never momentary and too often forgotten in the feeble attempts we make of finding meaning. letting the scene wash over us as we see. Of course now I am a writer because I write. Glass starts to shatter. ripping into skin with carnivorous jaws bursting seams and grinding groans laws violence providing glory. My lover panics and I try to calm her. Blood seals the rythmn.our quarter is last. glistening in the evening sun. a residual desire to exist as a text in another's hand. though one that now centres me. lashing the top step to the blacony rails. Blue joy again touches our shores experience teaching slowly that joy is joy be it blue or red. wearing asbestos suiting with a full face mask.iBlue joy once touched our shores. only the rite of writing fulfills me at the same time it empties out my being from its textuality. I stand silently as I have for hours. The adrenalin has gone and post-adrenal calmness takes over. I am no artist. so I move back to the middle of the small platform and look again at my watch. a lesson in humility and arrogance from a poet in Wolverhampton. the latter a late addition. as I realised my voice merely echoed. the largest bonfire I've ever seen. The heat has singed my arms and my hair is matted with sweat. I always wanted to be a writer and in some funny way still do. I panic and she tries to calm me. I too desire perhaps to achieve the 'recognition' Hegelians root us in. Three quarters of the block is blazing . giving me the ground the term 'artist' never played. To see the Being of being alive we need to reach its borders and look back. A metal ladder is raised and he swiftly ascends. a horizon too often out of view in our attempts to be in it. Blue joy once touched our shores leaden doors crashing dreams desires as long nights walking home tainted loves' sweet story. Gas pipes rupturing. The heat is now so intense and the flames so high that's the experience is actually beginning to take over from the fear. Alongside us the block burns fiercely. Even the air is beginning to be unbreathable. I live as I write (as I rite. relatively speaking. the one we had left. the same year I was born. Still. I am a recombinant and no longer seek after the originality of the work the artist so viciously desires. evacuations below. from the sixth floor all the way to the twentieth. Three hours of watching. The metal railings burn my fingers as I lean. a name upon their lips. Now the floor of the balcony is beginning to get too hot to stand still on. But the call is irresistible. High on a balcony. Like something from another world. Still. with the doors shut and hopes low.

'(Fulfillment means an abolition of inhereitances '. 2 . to reproduce. eating drinking walking doing being talking shouting sleeping bathing . But I like to hold an ear open to possibilities. I read.. wood and metal. I live with texts. that sense of overhearing a conversation in a cafe amongst people you know. I well up: I form within myself the utopia of a subject free from repression: I am this subject already.' Barthes.comes from a self-recognition of my own validity to myself and a continual struggle to maintain such a role. I live in a melee of attempts to connect with my ground in the earth and desires to fly to the sky through the medium of my mind.)' And so fails to lay bare their souls desire for fulfillment. the repetition of the same things. recombine. written as they are. indestructible. a sense of loyalty that pervades my whole life. Words seduce a response. I am surrounded by paper. to transmit. Only the will to fulfillment shines.. and again and again and again and again. for us. a commitment without a closure.Joy has no need of heirs or of children-Joy wants itself. So I work with texts. Of course (of curse. sometimes quite well. A Lovers Discourse Of course he writes to himself and we read his intimacies. before me. always possibilities. Dorset in Brighton. 'By this will. whilst sitting and reading by the fireside. I am a little tired of groups. it is unimportant that I have no likelihood of being really fulfilled ( I am quite willing for this to be the case ). Words seduce in much the same way that the conversation we always desire in the cafe with the stranger from the other table always lingers despite the monotonous nature of its non-appearance. I live by continuously attempting to avoid the death so many around me seem to fall into and embrace. write. I need a little distance from the cacophany of noise. I live an attempt to live a 'duality without a dualism' (Schelling). and so the conversations are only gradually becoming those of people I recognise. But I am new in Brighton again. wants everything to remain eternally the same. the death of 'living'. as though some burden were befalling them in every spare moment they found they possessed. coming back down last year after an absence of many years. It is the 'will to fulfillment' of language striving towards fulfillment that reminds the other (or makes them) the desire of the lover. writing and recombining . that is possibly my most central value.. wants eternity. In reality. of 'getting on with life'. to continue. a lovely place.. in order to go on reading. I am reminded of letters in prison again..' [Nietzsche] The fulfilled lover has no need to write. another deleted deletion) I live as anyone else. A loyalty above all to time. Links into time that gradually establish who we are. sometimes only by sight. to continue.' Though belief in either the Sovereign Good or the Sovereign Evil being equally insane makes a certain sanity reign in both. and so skim over conversations at a distance. a deception at the heart of his text that grates despite the beauty of the work. And a sense of loyalty. to the course of order to stay alive. '2. Though its occasional arrival spurs us on to further waiting. This subject is libertarian: to believe in the Sovereign Good is as insane as to believe in the Sovereign evil: Heinrich von Ofterdingen is of the same philosophical stuff as Sade's Juliette. the metaphysical desire.

I would probably have ended up in prison at some point before I was 25.. Whilst notions of absence may help deal with this. no-one consumes anything any more.because of the political status. sharing an umbrella in the rain as we run to the bus really transgress the audience would have to be tortured. I made something out of it and gained considerable knowledge. In many ways I have no problems with the experience. But they talk of the desire to reach through the texts. connected to the big Poll Tax riot we had here in 1990. There are many ways to consumate though .physical. though in the fact that some account was taken of the response some responsibility was entered into. wrote a ton of letters and got some training on computer lathes. Moreover I have a problem with the basic ideas. I thought of the rape scene in Man Bites Dog (is this the right film I'm thinking of. necassary even. though echoing a kernel of truth (the 'anti-censorship' kernel) fail to account for the art as art. that by the end of the film these acts were plainly 'real' others were adamant they weren't. ideal. read a pile of books. I'm not a robot sitting here in Brighton spewing out rough combinations of words. which enabled me to have a pretty sound time in nick actually.the presence thing again.too many people never experience honest fucking. to my friend. So I suppose I was a 'political' as far as that is a reality in prison here. a reality. My problem is basically this: that in a film of transgressive violence the audience is still audience. My work mate said he would never be able to 'remove' the images and perhaps this is a form of presencing but still an absent presence. merely pass it through their material system. absences etc) and where this scene shifts the film. The disconcerting thing for me was the motivation to watch. Mind. though I would be willing to be educated here. extreme torture . Despite the. 2 . I was struck with the thought that self-knowledge of drugs is far superior though their imbibing than through watching their imbibing . slightly distanced. and so the way I did it was probably 'the best'.. sensing the closeness of a physical reality near. though the problems of situating the film/art becomes incredibly difficult I think and cries of 'artistic (ir)responsibility' do not. not quite 'in' but 'in enough' to have to follow the rules. To transmission and reception. as I have perceived them. experience. But that strikes me as 'art as philosophy' or 'art as stimulus to thinking' whereas to reject a necessity for reflection. more distant as the years go by. turns it from a relatively humourous tale to a slightly sick and disturbing portrayal of a serial killer. there-ness. I write with a desire. The 'self-problematizing' here seemed as much exscuse as really critical thought about the films actions. spiritual . Stoned most nights when I wanted to be. Communication is always intensely personal. and in some ways even pleasure from the whole thing. though the effects on my family and my wife were quite negative and still echo through our relationship. though we never reach through the text to the textual but to a physical materiality. I was sent down for 2 and a half years for violence. may enable some experience to enter that is blocked by the reflection. Such activity can be sexual . only noone consumes.oh well. trust. Awaiting.the depiction is always absent from the viewer. the presence of torture to the torturer is absent and thus the transgression is mute it seems . with a meaning. natural. behind certain Avant Guard 'transgressive' film. Ins and outs of the context are not too relevant here but the essence of the conversation was that he had watched a snuff film with a load of other film buffs and whilst watching the film the acts of violence had engaged them in a conversation about their depiction . But it can also be simple presence.because consumation is that moment of absolute honesty. Reflection presupposes the ability to reflect and so a certain barrier always exists with art in this self-limitation of the format. obvious fact. if the art is taken as 'art to reflect on'. I search through discourses in order to attempt that communication that borders on communion. Then again. not its use but merely its necessity.'this was so unrealistic' being the jist of the thing. I only wish a little more debauchery were in evidence. reliability. Say. which gradually shifted as the scenes challenged these initial reactions. So in some funny sort of ways I was in the position of an anthropologist maybe. the loyalty to the other that demands the truth.Let us toast. still a ghost. mainly as they couldn't work out how the thing was done.. I'm an aspirant. Why watch a film which had no structure other than the violence? Plainly I can see grounds for such watching at certain points. Only in debauching can we consume .. thus have their choice removed. A conversation in a coffee-bar. be placed in a situation from which they cannot escape. even after finding out that it was 'supposedly' a snuff film..) where the camera crew become 'involved' (obviously distorted since the camera crew are themselves 'actors'. and that must be the point. honest sexuality. This seems entirely right. The cons treated me slightly different . I am a person. depictions. I was reminded recently of a conversation with a work mate in a local mental health community I was working in.I wasn't expected to fall in with certain elements of life .

making the point at which buildings stop and space begins increasingly unclear. Underneath my feet I can feel the concrete burning with the acquired heat of the day. This has happened twice now since I have been standing here. I can just about turn around and. As I slowly move towards the side of the mass and reach the grass I can see more of the picture. It is here that loyalty and honesty become critical since their lack removes my self from myself. real people. People. As they come we are forced closer and when they pass we all focus on them. clearing the excess from my skin. Something is happening behind me. But here this memory is always others. misses the point. The mass is now one.we are one. sinews and flesh felt under sinews and flesh. squeezed together in ever increasing intimacy as the line of men dressed in the symbols of separateness slowly and rigidly force their way through us. The raping of the festival. each body. push my hand across my forehead then through my hair. for a longer amount of time now. Above all I'm peopled. or I am who I don't want to be. honest dirt flowing through your fingers. The proximity of so many people makes me sweat. and containing on the one side a thronging mass of people and on the other a noticeable nothing. It's only possible in a mirror and so is always going to look different fom my perspective than from another's. each time increasing the smell of sweat and the tension in the mass. My body feels. The tarmac of the road is beginning to melt.. I have to squeeze my way past other sweltering bodies in an intimacy that makes the collective nature of the crowd seem direct and immediate. They are almost invisible behind the mass of people and the only sign of their existence is the abrupt edge to the crowd. horses. except most people simple walk over it forgetting it's there. locked into a physical union with every other individual that forms this mass. It would be like trying to see the back of my head. a different perspective. beyond their trace. I cannot actually move. An orgiastic atmosphere of feeling pervades us. Here is a very wide road. projection forward. like some invasive disease entering my body. Its suddenly strikes me as peculiar that a line of police has just forced its way through the crowd when such an obvious alternative exists beyond the barriers. when I do. That solid immovable object that is the road seems almost unstable. I am a real person. sweat and moisture and calmness on skin close to breath. totally and I am awash in sensuality and life. which seem so at odds with how I feel that I can only accept them as honest and take note.In writing this it misses the point maybe. And suddenly they charge. betraying a different reality that lies within its apparent rigidity. coppers and vans.. 2 . So I tend to accept a certain differentiation since I've come across mistakes. on their slow and short journey from one side of our body to the other. People move to the side. I'm from the earth. each individual in an intense physical connection with others that would not seem out of place in a brothel. but the persona is still something beyond my sight. the false image of the liars image becomes my reality and the realisation of its irrelevancy destroys part my very being as I realise I am not who I thought I was. The heat passes from one body to another as we wait. leaving a film of liquid dampwarmth on my body. It is the returning that is lost here. The true smell of warmth. never return to. The road is filled to bursting almost. It is taking on that slight viscosity that betrays its latent fluidity. though I have some form of soul and this doesn't live in my words but can maybe only be seen in our eyes. The sheer number is just incredible. The rising odours of human perspiration fill my head with the aroma of heat and happiness. It is only a few seconds after noticing the edge that the source of the containment can be perceived. never returning. I describe my lives and it seems pat. drives the production of adrenaline and the sweep of excitement that washes through the demonstration. As I write more. a link between notes made then and thoughts I'm trying to develop now. or perceptions. about five feet tall. Smell. I can only strive toward. a penetration by an outside force that has a profound effect. yet down the middle is an impenetrable wall of metal crash barriers. This is something that happens less now and is partly at the root of my desire to avoid too many people in my life. they the other. I have begun to build threads that link the parts together. I can see the blueblack helmets of the policemen wending their way through the mass of the crowd. A moment remembered. Trust. of a carnival of protest. I can look back to bits I've written four years ago and see a continuity. split lengthways down the middle by a line of crash barriers. each aspect. Something gonna happen. I sense the skin of the other as I press my flesh through the space. it is imagination. I blink away droplets that gather above my eyes. A heat haze blurs the lines of the buildings. not an abstraction or text. The differences between our groups become more real . such things are intensely erotic and so incommuncibale in this arena of loss.

The tobacco from the fag is sucked onto my tongue and as I pick it out. the dull blueblack of their uniforms contrasting with the walls of Whitehall. seeing things from afar. I notice that my hands have a slight tremble. keys attached to my belt hooks. take out my ouch and roll a fag. the inhumanity that resides in this seat of power. holding her reins firmly. past the surreal empty space of haze and uniform. letting go of their observation posts next to the railings as the time for watching begins to come to its natural end. across a little road that went alongside the patch of grass. Less than ten feet away I can see the perspiration on their skin. The buses are large ancient looking vehicles. I drop the cigarette and tidy up my jacket. Outside its entrance a force of police stand guarding it against a massive and colourful crowd. as though I am watching this on television. he says. and watch. Their faces are locked in a forward position. Body against body. There are lines of police sitting inside. I begin to take note of groups in the crowd. the yellows and greens of the banners and the pinks and blues of the hairstyles shine and glow. I can feel things beginning to move. tensely. bored and in their shirt sleeves. I straighten myself and ensure all valuables are safe. waiting. They too are trembling. They stand there. laces tied on my dockers. the sheer absence of colour. There is a constant movement. others wait around. A noise is still present but its tone has changed. zipping up the pockets on the leather jacket. letting the reds and blacks of the flags. I stop against a wall and lean back. laughter and reprimand mixing incessantly. slowly shifting patterns of people beginning to take their places for the days main event. at right angles to the main street and opposite the police. space now opening slightly. jackets and dreadlocks burning bright. money in my inside pocket. inpenetrable and umoving. where there had been a fuzzy haze of police and space. They move continuously. with their morose guardians standing in our shadow. only the curve of her breasts under her uniform betraying her sex. I can hear a child screaming somewhere behind me. I can see children sitting quietly afraid in prams with parents increasingly desperate to get out of this area yet impotent to move. riders sitting atop their steeds with helmets on that have clear plastic face guards which reflects the sun and obscure the face. watching the riders hold their horses in place ready for the off. is now encircled. Standing there watching they look afraid. My eyes are dazzled by the crowd in its living beauty and focusing on the walls of greyness. I laugh quietly to myself. Now there is crying. Noone is innocent. The enormous gulf between people is almost absurd now. I move further back. jostling about. pent up. On the fourth. On the thrid side is a human mass. this time to my right. trained ion the nape of the neck of the copper in front. People in the crowd are not talking as much. their proximity enhancing the contrast. uninvolved. then zipping together the two sides so that it doesn't flap. or try to. was Whitehall and the entrance to Downing Street. that famous seat of power. . in front of us. Here though we can see. The crowd had stopped here for nearly an hour now and things were obviously gonna happen soon. By now I am standing along the edge of the grass. Some leave. I see yet more fucking horses from the side street beginning to line up opposite me. attempting to keep the horse facing forward as it moves from side to side in frustration. I spot the person I was with earlier and make my way toward him. A line of horses comes out of the side road into the main are of the street. It would be so much more effective a seat of power if it gleamed in a positive celebration of Whiteness. The sun shines bright. I am still trembling slightly. seems immensely pointless all of a sudden. which always seems to remarkable grey. Each of us takes our place. The line of horses quivers in anticipation. clusters of people who have now began to wraps scarves round their faces and pull their beanies down to just above their eyes. tense and firm. The little piece of grass where the human throng is slightly less dense. We all know something's gonna happen. as though some artist had constructed the metaphor for us. shifting from their left feet to their right. almost opposite Downing Street. the opposite side to where the coppers are concentrating. Music from saxophones has given way to drums and whistles.On the far side of the road. Now we are two. mind against mind. to and fro. Innocent. I feel adrift from reality. there now stands a solid line of horses. Fear and adrenalin are beginning to mix with the sun and sweat. I notice a woman on top of one of the horses. probably excellent for benders but painted a peculiar shade of green that could not be bought ion shops no matter how hard one looked. And we're under starters orders. others come in. make out the metallic numbers on their shoulders. On two sides are the grey walls of Whitehall one of which is supoporting me as I lean resting. It is like standing in front of the start line at a race course. returning to myself. Another line of men in blueblack uniforms is wending its way through our body. This whole place was beginning to enter a state of flux. A few minutes ago children could be heard battling through family life in the midst of the crowd. whistles now begin to sound. with vans and buses for company. the grain of the weave on their uniform. People are beginning to climb down from the walls surrounding me. opposite me. It only takes a minute to reach him and I am surprised how quickly I have moved through the crowd. I can see horses standing down a side street. Continuous whistling and a ripple of sound emanates from where the coppers walk. 2 .Looks like we're on for one.

What if it were Turing's prodigious accomplishment and it's face was here. Behind the horses I see a thick line of riot police. Incongruity is my favourite style. On its back it has a train. legs opening. Yet they aren't. the texture of skin. But then I don't have any flab. scents presence.. Five foot ten. I reply. one triangular. Short cropped hair. but enough to take the edge of the translucent whiteness of the celtic or saxon european. I wear a pocket watch. They are moving forward. the presence. from morning to night. in red. fit without fanatic. smell of sex. of exhausted emission and compressed contraction followed by silence. with the three legs of the isle of man. coarse. I always wear this watch. hands moving. At that point of entry of the tongue. heavy 2 . My legs again are firm. Suddenly someone starts to shout. of a never consumatted scent. An old soviet railways watch. just beginning to show the signs of wear from five years of being put in and out of my pocket. My right wrist wear a brass bangle. whilst on the face it has a train wheel with wings on it. without the word scrawny coming to mind. It relates to no-one and anyone. all tight. With nowhere to go they want to stand on our space. leaving the tonal difference of the line in the tan. Two generations back. with a yin/yang ring on the chain as well as two celtic life symbols on the connector. Legs. I have no fat on my body. hazel. I am not a muscle-bound man. The nudity of the body begins eventually to become abstract and symbolic in its depiction of the memory of sensuality. betraying an air of absence or lack. no barrel chest or six-pack stomach. but luck seems absent from any realm of interest here. And then the horses charge. the shape of a skinhead. My collar bone sits atop my breast. It is i suppose. thick fingers. pressure of pressure upon pressure. not a fact i either worry about or mind. literally the text skimming across my retina. Tanned i look quite sallow. And the body. save a few wisps around my nipples. one circular. attached to my belt holder on my trousers. but still white nonetheless. though a pair of levis tends to cover my bum. connecting us to our father. a ring received from my father-in-law after his death last year. in the present tense. Scarred slightly. From the back a certain tightness of the skin reveals present muscles. though rather thick. framing the base of my neck without. Such wondering though occurs endlessly. Hard hands. armani almond shape gold wire frame glasses. Such pat suggestions fail to ensnare the inevitable curiousity of immediacy. hence the cropped hair. I suppose it is 'easier' being white and so probably 'ought' to feel lucky. which are small and discrete. Large hands. Large eyes. with gold medallions with the crest of saudi on my right hand. No more a robot than I. round shields at the ready. though this merely accentuates the sensual in a variation of texture. which sounds like it's verging on a brag. i almost always fuck with another face. No hair. one shared by my brother. Of my feet i will not speak. In pulp fiction fabienne declares she'd love a pot-belly. My legs and arse fail to live up to this model of hairlessness and a gentle covering of down begins from my trousers down. eight celtic dragons flowing across it. shoulders. Uncircumcised yet tidy. a family ring. arse. though softening after four years in a land without work. though love the sensuality of roundedness on a woman. in a way that appeals both to me and to others. which I wear all the time. I come from a background with gypsy blood. Of entrance and movement. of the lip pressing hard against lip. I only take my glasses off to go to bed or to fuck. My left hand has a wedding band and a small silver pinky ring. stomach. not long now. I think. of sense. Presence sent. whistles and drums increase in tempo and we look toward the horses. clothes loosening. justifying this on the grounds that 'it is unfortunate that what is pleasing to the eye and pleasing to the touch are not the same'. no flapping forsekin or distended scrotums. save to say that they are better than they were and constitute my principal achilles heel (with as much pun intended as possible). Tight. my cock apparently a normal length. erections rising. The skin is slightly rough. into us. but a firm smoothness. short cropped beard.Yeah. slope of thigh. I hate flab on my body.. straight nose and full rose lips. I consider myself at my best when naked. I like the back of my head best. ten stone and slim. Inevitably I must wonder about the face.

Where lives are reduced to texts. de. I'd like to think. manufacturing life.Mon Dec 02 13:06:13 1996 Message-ID: <32A2B111. combination. I am told. the lamb dress unable to hide. travelling and travellers. a covering of metal. de Goesthe delete key. worked over. fighting. His huge monsters born of romanies and roads. or the other. the balanced precariousness of my soul. cyborgisation mixing with mediaeval power. large> 2 . an imaginary image. These aren't the hands I use. de. These aren't my hands. in this place. Touching skin with desired delicay betraying ineptness. Now my hands appear. Imagine my screen now. of course. My pointer to my past. make man (sic). how can I show them my hands? Imagine my screen now. always correcting. like the keys fight me. never thinking through. Which would I want the hard hands with a soft heart. My hands. whilst desiring politeness. moving at times rapidly. Delicate touches betray ineptness. more like my father. de. to talk of making. gradually. holding. This now fading. are my roots. live in. de. so Other. working. I desire a gauntlet. At that point of pointing the mutton betrays its essence. My grandfathers hands. common. blisters and calusses forming the clothing of position. lost in a past others take from me. hoisted through the air. with oil and blood mixed. is something we shouldn't be proud of. that <'cyber-'>s the world and leaves it out to die. (But how can I talk of anything other than man?) Yet it seems so unlike. Desire the armour to hide my soul? Too easy. Worked hands. Yet desire imagines pianists politenesses. coming to the fore. fingers outstretched. as a link to the roots. too one-sided. Maybe one day I shouldn't correct the text. Typing seems such a gentle affair Unsuited to my hands. Boxers have hands to be proud of. In my hands. The screen lost as the product apears and my hands manipulate. My hand types. make the dialectic. gold squares threatening and showing. Working and Fighting. armour metaphors playing with my soul. bent slightly. which I deny and embrace. says Kojeve. From .6F9F@mistral. Large rings. Working a lathe. and only the shape. Of course the hard side is loved too. I often type three letters at once. given constantly this lambs' stoccato deletions giving intermitent linearities. fighting. for me. too soft. to literary figures. But boxing. always.Solid softness. but only as ghosts. imaginary images. I always love Nietzche. This. Noticeable maybe. working less. 'I love your hands' She sees the roots. Maybe let my hands speak. Worked with. solid. feeling.

the a negative meaning. I) MIME-Version: 1. re .Date: Mon. may also be thought. a destructive. as it shifts the flow and makes certain lines of movement in thought become more apparent. finding the notion of cyborgisation inevitably ambiguous but.0 To: FOP-L <FOP-L@VM. where its complexities within three or four thousand years of discourse is neither ignored but nor simply acepted and taken on. either innately or through its particular placement within our western culture.0 (Win95. At the same time I sit on a peculiar ambivalence. charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit X-Mozilla-Status: 0001 Content-Length: 10382 A breath of cynicism is often useful perhaps in allowing us to catch our breath. Now.CAA27156@hinge. albeit as perhaps an unmentionable aspect. Ambiguity lies in the possibilities of fresh construction on the basis of the destructive potential of technology. The entropic tendency that is talked of in regards the 'life' of the body could surely be in part an acknowledgement of what might be called our 'being-towards-death'. as an attempt to *re*-introduce the spiritual. in the manner of an unassuming assumption. 2 . It may be 'taken on' by being taken on. and so I have a certain inclination towards the sort of doubts and questions raised by those secptical of the notion of cyborg. In particular the point that may be worked on is that this entropic tendency 'towards' a pain of the body can still be a towards if the pain/death spectrum is brought together.CC. along with Heideger maybe. hope/death/politics which could be seen in cases of 'martyrdom'. perhaps also lace together and in a different way to that of. The relation of pain and death would also here open possibilities to an understanding of sado-masochism and submissive-dominant sex that is also understandable through an overlapping of one of the vectors in the sex/death combination that occurs in sm/sd relations.mistral.PURDUE. though my account would be limiited to a personal and relatively limited phenomenology. Levinas' introduction that may be dismissed. Of course the other unmentionable aspect in cyberspace is simply the body itself.the unmentionable aspect of body) References: <199612020233. like all technology. though how succesfully is difficult to assess for> X-Mailer: Mozilla 3. not least pointed to by Levinas' critique and attempt to introduce a being-toward-beyond-death. 02 Dec 1996 10:36:02 +0000 From: Matt <matt_lee@mistral. say. The unmentionable aspect is the body. though all distinguishable. also inevitably containing a tendency towards. if death/pain are brought into our> Content-Type: text/ there is some ground that can be cleared with it. Plainly the sex/death/pain apsects. but the destructive nature itself seems the base-line if not the essence and thus all technology needs to some extent some awareness and meanings to be re-thought.EDU> Subject: Turning to stone (Long) (Was. whilst this Heideggerian notion holds great difficulties. as a *re*-introduction from the Judaeo-Christian tradition of a beyond that is religious.

He was already on a load of drugs. a body without organs not in some simple Lockean Leviathan where the concept is metaphoric from the point of the subject (though whether it is metaphoric full stop is another issue). within medicine. His brain literally turns to stone as he grows. turning. into the subject. and its values the activity of the medical staff shifted from a position of 'solving the problem' to one of 'cooperating to assist the solution of a problem'. Dimishing the threat of the organ. Having caught what seems like a virus he went into hospital fitting and entered a coma two weeks ago. removals. He was in a coma for a week and came out of it. but where the subject becomes without organs both physically. finding ways to gradually replace segments of bodies. precisely through a refusal of death that became dogmatic rather than thoughtful and proactive. editing processes but also without the 'threat' of the organs being so great. to technology. as the medical staff acknowledged. but also in attempting to help him. though. This cooperation allowed back in a certain meaning to the activity which was then shared. They could be perhaps described as having some role in the cause of that pain in that situation. By the acknowledgement of this centrality of the group to which Jordan belonged. a birthmark on the face that replicates within the brain. in a battle located under our skin. where the parents had refused to acknowledge death and the medical staff had been unable to proactively move such an ackowledgement into centre ground. My son Jordan has been in hospital for the last couple of weeks. This situation curiously played itself out against the death of another child on the same three bed ward five days ago. We fight 'nature'. its inevitability to become accepted if not acceptable or desirable. Not necassarily all of it and the process is slow and partial but it causes uncontrollable epilepsy and a proneness to stroke as the condition is at root cerebro-vascular. The child was on morphine. they acknowledged cannot be stopped. his drug-chart full and overflowing in its seemingly vain attempt to list all the techniques that were being thrown against what was in effect an unknown. This would tend to suggest blame however and no-one can be blamed for death . He has something called Sturge-Weber syndrome.maybe pain is that aspect of death that we see as capable of being held to be 'caused' and which thus allows back in some false notion of blame in a lot of situations. This. In the end. located on the meninges and surface of the brain. Death itself. they cannot solve this problem. will find the subject. in ITU. Struggles against medicine. We were acting in cooperation not just in attending and caring to his needs. wiping the dribble and puke from his mouth. my family in this case. causing gradual decomposition through calcification of the extra blood vessels. Two things as personal situations suggest other thoughts. allows the thrust of technology as control/mastery into the body. the source of meaning. monitoring. The 2 . as an opposing force. He is three and a half. two hours after taking a crisis recovery homeopathic remedy. merely ensure certain aspects do not cause death when it can be avoided. I make no claims for the homeoptahic remedy at all but what was important was that the doctors wrote the remedy up on his drug-sheet and acknowledged it as a choice we made and thus as part of his treatment. through attempts to place meaning back as the central 'reason' for activities. nappy changes. because it was in such pain and the parents refused to allow the death of the child to really face them. in a coma for a week. we have done since medicine removed itself from an embedded approach and attempted to raise itself to science. in a seredipitious coincidence. placed back at the centre of activity. though.There is a certain positivity in the striving towards a beyond-the-body. at six months old. with replacements. six months old and born twenty four weeks premature. washing.

is the time he has for technology. but the individuals intention is not the sole guide for a meaning of the act. but for the entesnion of this animation. with different logics. Animation is here not understood as movement but as a certain being-as-animate. including his own body. operating in this instance from the seventh cranial nerve and thus paralysing eveything from the bottom of his mouth down. as Levinas suggests. The other aspect. to animate even in its paralysis. Refusal and refutation operate. What's left attempts to live. He can frown evenly but only smile lop-sidedly. but both operate. not his re-animation as he is still animate. aside from his age though and tyhus the time he has. through this ability. with meaning. in extensions of possibilities of animation. Cyborgisation as a method and tool for his animation. Certain areas of the brain are damaged through the Sturge-Weber but nothing more than expected and nothing to turn an 'otherwise normal' boy into someone with half their body paralysed. Here Stelarc could be brought in to open up a phenomenolgy of the extension of the possibilities of animation. It is therefore suggested that he has what is called Todd's Paralysis. either gradual or drastic. Refusal comes in because of the intiation of this process. Perhaps. No doubt a certain novelty factor of the actor performing and earning cannot be excluded. We thus always need to begin from refusal and this applies to technology as much as any thought. both in his almost cartoon like appearance and in his praxis. His art would thus be a way of exploring possible worlds phenomenologically. Called a 'dense hemiplegia' the paralysis is technically not a paralysis since no brain damage could be seen to account for the suddenb cgange. This I think applies to 'whatever's left' ijn any situation of entropy. and in his case it is the left that is paralysed and which he needs to live. is more than possible.notion of a proactive refusal can be important though and is perhaps the way to invest the cyborg. Aside from the trauma for us all of this last two weeks there is also the fact that a certain rehabilitation is both accepted as possible and the most realistic course worth pusruing. though this may well be impossible. at least through CT scanning. thus creating a tension between logics. a paralysis of his left side. No particular sub-dural bleeding was noted and this would be the main focus of attention as to the cause. What is worth pointing to here is the role of technology in a possible animation of our bodies. the anima both connecting to notions of 'animal' and of 'soul' or 'spirit'. He will at a minimum have the capacity to learn to have half a body that works and thus manipulate his enviroment. At three and a half he will half the capacity to attempt to re-learn to walk. Another situation then is that we are now faced with a boy of three and a half who has as a result of this last two weeks. We refuse a situation but the refusal must be open to refutation and still capable of maintenance as refusal. What do you see? What did you see? 2 . Refusal here begins the process. technology.

it desires beyond everything that can simply complete it. A representation of a tree presupposes this sighting. My body has no head as the here forms around my eyes. my soul. It is like goodness . still assuming the Other though. yet this desire is impossible. Sometimes. I don't speak of him. Fake? then the real becomes present behind the fake. It is a desire that can not be satsisfied. a concept. entirely present only then. sensuality mixing together as I observe and catch the beauty of sense. the never to be consumed.the revelling in the sensual delight of sex. The metaphysical desire has another intention. in forgetting God. lag. Watching through lenses though I always see a screen except when I enter my bed. I think the Kantian noumenal is unknowable" someone says. even misleading. rip me from the already Other.' (Levinas) The texts snap into place on my screen and words fill this emptiness they create that is my intern. always wishing to lose touch. when the light is right. They suggest we can never reach the presence because of some barrier. As for God. assumes an ultimate presence. to merge. but then access to the sacred can only come about through accident. We desire to be more than we can be. Having sex I see skin without a screen. If this language is possible it is because most of our desires and love are not pure. I talk of the sacred in passing and such triviality may be blasphemous. text. 'The metaphysical desire does not rest upon any prior kinship. I can see through the back of my head. Yet I see myself only from here.the sublimity of the situation encompasses the sacred. For we speak lightly of desires satisfied. to throw off humanity. I see them. even disguised. life. The desires one can satisfy resemble metaphysical desire only in the deceptions of satisfaction or in the exasperation of non-satisfaction and desire which constitutes voluptuousity itself. or even of moral and religious needs. The rain falling on my leather boot. the problem being that an inherent myopia exists in its opacity. To be ill responsible. 'I look into your eyes and see your soul' (James) But only through my glasses. in being a-theistic. isolating. But mostly not. The fake becomes a mask. Love itself is thus taken to be the satisfaction of a sublime hunger. my body bury itself in yours. Rather a face. sense and situation. except the whole notion of representation is flawed. I want to eat. A tendency to reduce the Other to my symbolic representation. or of sexual needs. an inbetween. I see behind myself in the glasses. of the Other as site of our sight.All this formation of symbolic representation. but then I'm not blind. I distance myself from God. an essence. Still. Even the screen though is somemthing I merely see through. just as any notion of symbolic representation maintains a notion of presence beyond the symbol. veil. And then we join. My dry mouth wants to be filled with your succour. but deepens it. Always from somewhere. to e-merge for a moment into absolute existence (an exit-stance). To lose myself in the moment of frenzy. Words create an emptiness. Sometimes their words seem to locate me. nothing symbolic in this representation. But then the knowledge of the unknowable comes form where? Or is it simply knowable as unknowable? Makes little sense to me. 'the eye you see is not an eye because you see it. I don't form a representation of a tree but simply see a tree. something from which we are alienated. even denied in the moment of presentation but always real. to be lost. In reality such sacred essence intimately involves what most see as blasphemous . I see a face. through turning away from thought and entering into experience ."I agree.the Desired does not fulfill it. sometimes misses the point.and alienation. death. we can approach ourselves. in order to attain the sacred in myself. as a word. an indifference. a faith. to throw my head back and drink the Other down. The notion of symbol is simplistic and unfortunately too central to enable anything other than a notion of alienation to continually assert itself . even as a mood. Like the idea of the Kantian noumenal . In distancing ourselves from talk of God. 2 . I don't represent but rather simply see. it's an eye because it sees you' (Machado) When I do.

only ever being-for-you (begging-for-you). I no longer have the meaning of my existence tied up so intimately with being politcally active however and so feel capable of allowing my self some room in my life and such room can be provided in part by the net. If I knew the future. involves far too many mediums. But such desire for absoute presence. but because of trial and error and persistence. But there is always a promise in philosophy. into you. postponed. our being. written. Yet the responsibility of response needs the failure of alternatives to the expected . Time and persistence. I think there's a lot of room to explore here.) Except that in the yearning for the reply the moment comes. but at the very heart of the words. At root I think politics is constructed by people and in reality the mob least that is part of the need now. and this is done is front of our eyes and ears and in our hearts rather than in our heads. The transformation will go on outside the net I think. the law of law-obedience. The empy belly. to be broken. for what I can't take responsibility for it would seem. intellectual and possibly even spiritual. It only really happens with real people walking on real ground attacking real enemies. The idea perists. I can respond in many ways. somehow simultaneously removes the promise from itself. somehow. though it may be peripherally useful.' (Gramsci. more than merely the difference between an 'ought' and an 'is'. one is my responsibility the other I should be responsible with. personal identity. Amusing really since I love the philosophy of the text and in terms of subjectivity. 'I promise' and 'I guarantee'. Thus in attempting to read Heidegger. when a philosophy becomes fashionable. its heart and the motivation for the love it professes. for the unknown.the promise contains the possibility of being broken and it is this which enables it to be kept. Political stability is potential dammed up and breaching the damn through the envisaging of options is the single greatest skill in politics. the utopia stands present and is rebuilt. however. I couldn't promise merely state. Such response is blatantly a failed promise of response. the consummation shifts from skin to text.Anorexic text flowing from anorexic lives. Tendencies to orthodoxy seem bound up with any such attempt. 'For a mass of people to be led to think coherently and in the same coherent fashion about the real present world is a 'philosophical' event far more important and 'original' than the discovery by some philosophical 'genius' of a truth which remains the property of small groups of intellectuals. not because of some spurious notion of anarchic capitalism that seems so trendy in 'intellectual' circles. The rest is just imaginary. (my words. but the possibility of giving back the body in the response is one that has been broached. love. Their conversion into reality though is not something possible via the forms of the net. tendencies to 'follow'. In this moment of the reply I have fully entered into the Other. all texts postponed.) This doesn't mean the net of philosophy or any other peripheral activity is unimportant. I tend not to believe in a 'socialist' future on the basis of reason or historical law but simply on the basis of persistence. This is not just because of its exemplarity as a performative. poetic. but room to explore doesn't mean there's room to build. a certain promise of response is or was suggested and yet is now. a guarantee of response it seems. This impersonal locates the promise as promise. When such an echo seems to occur. a love of the promise. Perhaps an impossible situation. The promise is perhaps even the very seat of philosophy. The conjugation distorts in the transition from the personal to the impersonal. for the eternal moment. from materiality to ethereality. Language itself complicating instanteity. The permanent hunger. and this will occur on the back of activity. I always think philosophy has got fuck all to do with political activity and tend to see the net similiarly. you promise. artistic. with many aspects of my body. it promises. is the unquenchable craving. the promise is responsibility. Responses to Heidegger often appear to absolve themselves of the body and refuse the promise in only giving of the intellect. passion. Like a genetic aberration the impersonal disrupts the genus. Nietzsche calls to us to 'dare to make promises' and almost promises us the promise of the promise (the impersonal of the personal). The postponed presence. from you to me. I have merged and e-merged but only ever as a ghost. It is far better as part of the background of our world than as a medium for transforming that world. clearly apparent to Heidegger himself when he declares that 'philosophy is essentially untimely because it is one of those few things that can never find an immediate echo in the present. example. from presence to absence. Yet to respond with 'many aspects of my body' is far too complex. in some ways. It would be historical almost. recast . intellect. they promise. I promise. either it is no real 2 . Does a promise presuppose responsibility? In the moment of the promise there is 'a taking responsibility for' the future. to read the question. he/she promises. Poltical achievements come from our accepting we are part of the mob and attempting to move ourselves and others in certain directions. I have a very fluid model. There is a fundamental difference between 'I promise' and 'I guarantee'. to 'respond to Heideggers call' in the sense of 'falling in behind'. desire. indeed its very peripherality enables a certain flux that opens up the exploration of possibilities.

yet ignore us. arms extended to our side. we are simply here. Waking up. bright eyed but without a past. We swim in the sea and as we come up for a mouthful of air we taste shit.philosophy or it has been misinterpreted and misused for ephemeral and extraneous purposes. There is just the immediacy of the walls. They face us. Lean back gently on our hands. Shining back the bare tube light in splashes of luminescence. The walls extend out and reach their end. skin touch. We can see it all without tilting our head at all. We kill ourselves then blame the other. folding back into the corner opposite. creating a truly vicious circle. The naked skin of the persons shoulders. like plates. in a bare cell. fingers bent slightly upwards. The walls extend to our left and right. their hands. Stop and begin to look at this image. To look at the filth that surrounds us and appeal beyond the city limits to the peace of the past is to fail to accept that we are the hell we desire to escape from. The walls consist of badly painted brickwork.' Both those named 'Heideggerians' and those named 'Derrideans' spring to mind as the phrase 'when a philosophy becomes fashionable' glides by our eyes. we see a naked person. the skin of the cell. face diagonally across the space of the cell. The room fills our vision. back in the corner. Their right hand stretches out behind them to full length. crouching on their haunches. with no thought of a future. cupping. light greenish colour. moving together frantically with their mouth. where hopes transform into memories? Can we ever lose our dreams? ever fulfill our desires? would we die to succed in this perenial quest? As I read the news. no sense of identity. naked. looking around. sensing the gloss of the glass in the finish on the paint. We create hell and then demand heaven. an animal gorging on their latest kill. engaged in the process of eating straight from their hands. palm towards the walls. pressing ever so slightly against the clinical paintwork. towards the other corner. 2 . Ribs arching out of the skin. Their left hand contains something they're eager to consume. To touch they are cold. Garbled garbage flowing around us like the effluent in a swimming pool. Yet can we ever escape without dreaming for our desires' fulfillment in a future utopia. We turn our world into a wasteland with our bodies waste then bemoan the lack of space. the fingers pressing against the floor. A dull. in this corner. providing an echo of the collarbone as the back flows away from you. head against their hands. In a cell. scan the little articles of information about Bosnia or Belly. it's size closes in and a sense of enclosure arises. invading our lives. do I find a point to it all or does a futility merely accompany me? Imagine for a moment the image of a human being. Stand in the corner and take a look. Place our hands. fingers outstretched. Noone walked through a door. show the skeletal structure clearly. As we look forward. visible at the forefront of a filthy back that disappears out of sight. The poison of pollution. knuckles scraping. tasted in our mouths as we walk through the streets of the city. without even adjusting our eyes.

a ground for living. We are us all. To begin to accept ourselves is not to sit and want to die but to begin to live. giving us a position. We all have options. attempting to amputate part of our own bodies. however. But no individual is an individual thought. with the very soul of our being. A small window high up on the opposite wall to the left opens out to a cloudfilled sky. albeit the longest in our story. the one joined through the other to its opposite. We should accept. the unthought thinking of our lives we can find in living. is still a default. an identity. enfolding. Acceptance. But this is merely one thought. the sort which provides no indication of the time of day. eat.the ripples excrete a stone from the water. If we throw a stone into a point in the water it is the point of emantation for the ripples that we take as identifying where the stone fell. but the grey. shit. can fully decsribe this being that is our lives. Noone persecutes us except ourselves. or merely exist?' Everyone will merely exist most of the time and to accept that is to accept death in life and life in death. white. only to land again forming new ripples of life. Yet when we set a computer program for use we make default choices which then form the ground that constantly repeats as a base line for activity whenever the program is executed. Yet with our own existence. no model. If we accept anything we choose it. Hell is not a prosecuting demon firing up the furnaces of a volcanic horror. Our hell belongs to the same people. no theory. like some amorphous vibrant monster that arises from the chaotic imagery. yellow. philosophy. ours. Our planet is not mutiliated by morons who know no better. blue. A baseline. is the glimpse of ourselves we can get if we dare to give up on any meaning. imprisoned reality of the vicious circle of existence. red. naked. Outside this thought is another. Certain patterns of acceptance become so ingrained their role as choices becomes lost. overlapping. The individual is the collective and the collective is an individual. in sleeping. As we watch this disgusting display the person shits on the floor. Our lives are just that. intermingling. No demons exist which defecate on our planet. and deftly scoops the steaming excresence into their mouths. We can describe ourselves. This image. Yet we cannot describe us being ourselves since that would still be merely description and would end up only describing our descriptions into further inscriptions. purple. to default choose. Such work is needed. a task we must constantly begin afresh each new morning. Poetry. No image. no thinking only the one thought. We are one world and that means we are the murderers as well as the murdered. seperating.The person is covered in shit. Repetition and order forms a movement of colour and shape as we stare outside the image watching the screen evolve. We only see the ground as we go 2 . jumping out of the water like a flying fish. We can be ourselves. Ripples turning to waves in bright hues of orange. to accept is to fail to reject. Our own defaults aren't thought out by any individual person but by the individual collective that is 'us'. black. I fuck therefore I am. this brief moment of hell. but by ourselves. in eating. the acceptance of out being. bringing poison into our lungs and filth into our mouths. We are no innocents standing by. Existence and excresence are as intertwined as life and death. in shitting. To pretend to be innocent is to practice the inevitable passivity that will end in us excluding part of ourselves. green. die. Wider and wider concentric ripples of choice layer themselves upon us. in fucking. other than to distinguish it from night. I shit therefore I exist. Reverse this process . we are not able to stand outside. Thousands upon thousands of layers. At the end of each day ask 'did I live today. science. most often though we accept that I don't.

holding it out into the future with a faith akin to the priest holding the crucifix out in the face of the horror of evil. he crossed his arms over his naked chest and finally gazed at us with ecstatic eyes. whilst the martyr thrusts their act forward. How is it I understand them? What is it I have understood? Here the question takes the dialogue and rips its heart out. Blanchot quotes Nietzsche as saying 'there is nothing more banal than death' and in so doing attempts to grasps the experience of is the transcendence of I toward the Other . is precisely what is gone against in the act of the martyr. of the story. the grasping of death. of the sexual debauchery of the narrator and Simone. as happened. I have a desire to be understood. thus as expressible to others. The moment of communion relates and connects. This 'understanding' however is itself in need of being understood. rather. Accept humanity as it is and hug it firmly to the chest . Our existence has to be accepted but can only be once we have created a moment of life. understanding. It always 'happened'.. I want to note here in using this passage that the passivity of the suicide. of I and the Other. Something like an absurd joy began to open his mouth. As past. A bizarre hope of purification had come to the wretch. so communion is inexpressible . for it to be consummated. a phenomenon of communion that simply occurs yet is itself inexplicable. . the moment can be situated.and then bring a knee up sharply in its groin. it is always a lost exchange which. The desire in the text is to be understood. As a lovers joining sight is lost in silence. when looked at.. however. illuminating his eyes'. As past communion can be reconstructed in order to attempt to bridge the gap of its absolute uniqueness in a categorisation. 'Martyrdom. though why should it be limited to no more? As a moment. As such. it must.'. as this temporalised beyond-us. As unique the communion is inexpressible. watching a figure emerge from the ground. and is thus a transcendental moment (of necessity). providing that its discrete character as a moment is not held to but rather disrupted by placing it or allowing it to come to us as past. takes place. Without the inter-relationship of the I and the Other . precisely because it is in its original uniqueness a shared event. as memory. just as the ripples of the pond eventually fade. Of course. As we crash to earth with a sickening crunch of bone and bowels. I want the other to see through my eyes. then watched it fade out and die. This seems to leave us at once in a situation where a recourse to reason is lost and we are bereft of anything other than an intuitionistic leap. It is in this last line that a certain fluidity arises and we are drawn into the passion. it is the moment of connection.the term communion posited as it suggests this union of community. At a certain point it almost seems like the validation of my words is needed for a validation of myself to occur. such a community comprising at least two. It appears as a transcendence of I into a situation of We. with all the force reserved for the rapist next door. My text has a desire to be understood. the moment passes.beyond and soar to the sun on waxladen wings. appear as union .' he uttered in a voice that was suddenly feeble and yet tore out like a sob. it is always past. For communion to exist. precisely because it is a communion. 'The imbecile gasped dumbstruck at the Englishman: an extremely silly expression darted across his handsome face. 'Thus in voluntary death it is still extreme passivity that we perceive'. Such a suggestion divorces the moment of communion from its historical and situational embeddedness within a social life which it presupposes. 'Martyrdom. holding themselves out into the Nothing. At that point the phrase 'I know what you mean' takes on its simple presence as a point of contact and in this point of contact the communion. the taking death seriously that engenders the suicide. it seems. Accept that ground. In dialogue a successful moment comes when the moment of communion takes place. displacing the communion and replacing it with possession. a small figure on this immense expanse of existence. however. it would (of necessity) be one-sided . is immediately lost. embrace the arsehole in the car and the moron in the missile silo and 'the devil you know'. rising tall. perhaps.and yet this asymmetrical transcendence would be (of necessity) unconsummable. 2 ...this gives it the character that could enable it to be dismissed as merely intuitionistic mysticism.the moment of communion is incomprehensible. the point of pain. but as it is (of necessity) communal the shared character of the point enables some purchase to be had in developing it as a concept. Most easily if we begin to ask why. a fleeting transience. a certain futility of the Bacchanalian violence brought into relief by the 'purity' of meaning . The withdrawal of suicide is an act that aims at no more acts. yet in this scene of sacrilegious and orgiastic brutality we find a certain ambiguity entering into the situation.or.

always a notion of duration whenever there is an attempt to grasp. What is an author?). shopping lists and the like-minded simplicities of banal everydayness (Foucault. vapour. And how can writing ever avoid the grasping? Language perhaps avoids it.EDU Reply-To: FOP-L <FOP-L@VM.CC. I reject them. present. Zettel). we. absent. my notebook padded with words and thoughts and history. baptised (Hegel. also attempts a duration or rather is forced into a space of duration from which it rises.PURDUE. lines form.PURDUE. What would it be that is this solace. however. Mediate. I refuse their grasping. for the sake of simply saying.EDU> From: Matt <matt_lee@MISTRAL. that it is solace found and fretted upon in this page and amongst this scrawled vanity.EDU> Sender: FOP-L <FOP-L@VM. To find what? Solace is written. she.CC.Mon Jan 13 17:28:45 1997 X-POP3-Rcpt: matt_lee@hinge Return-Path: owner-fop-l@VM. Of what would solace consist of? A principal aspect in the writing seems.PURDUE. At what point does the mysterious force trouble these proceedings? How can writing ever avoid the grasping? I attempt to grasp her. Let's say. To: Multiple recipients of list FOP-L <FOP-L@VM. He attempts to grasp me.CC. and stock still stand my words. The trail left behind me. ether and air. To find: solace. ad infinitum. or do we avoid things by simply repeating maxims that refuse any use of 'consists of' (Wittgenstein. They attempt to grasp it. Or we can dodge and weave. even written language. is a desire for duration.The very purity of experience that is aimed at in the violent exercise of desire that the central characters enact is lost in the climactic moment of this pursuit.CO. the graspable and for graspability. As though the possibility of writing creates writing. Introductory lectures to aesthetics).EDU> X-Mozilla-Status: 0001 Content-Length: 4963 9 January 1997 With the blank page and the figures of formation that found my words out here. immediate. (21 August 1996 2 . From . He. But then how do I exist? The pen scratches. Writing. The grasping creates the space both for the grasped. after all has been taken in if not taken on. I hope to find solace.PURDUE.UK> Subject: Eyeslide. Duration. Dates.CC. stand stock still and exist.

As in the morning.) As long as I stand. a facet of the paper. the scratch of my pen are all here). This too is like a morning. The 'taking in' of the text seems easier when I can enclose it with commentary. manipulated and forcing the body to expel reality. (8/9/96 She has ejaculated life. smell it. me and him. blah. alters the page because it is re-formed with the comment. Then this reality also seeps into the touch. beginning again and again. disease. Late.The print out has margins. Derrida). stretched. but the shadow on my page. Duration isn't permanence but postponed perishability. hear the pen scratch. death. So a body moves between us. Base copulation built upon theoretical grounds of intersubjectivity: one or many. decay. surely none naive enough to believe in the author anymore. Always the words. the body of our lives. new days come in its wake. her body. taste the sounds of mundanity as we wait for the coffee to boil and the croissants to soften and warm in the oven. As long as it stands. mine. eyes singed and balls stinged with blades and stitches. grids. primal base screaming as foetal pressure opened her vagina to bursting distortion. blah. Can I grasp it? Even refusal opens doors. a very early eye-scratching morning that forces us out whilst we simply call to return. in that border that exists on the page and which. when I can make it 'mine'. we can allow a little authority back in. One set of images perhaps. And like the morning. words irrelevant. (Echoes) But we're still left with this (no of course I can't see it. perhaps. he/she/it stands. words again. as we reimpose ourselves on a day. the heat on my legs. our bodies. I stand. inverted commas abounded. a renewal of the attempt to go beyond the average. Talk and writing work on a distance of the very body that comes between us. There are no margins on-line. Another image. I cannot scribble down the side of the words. that of the fuck. matrices. Of what though. beginning again and again. Relax. that is lost on-screen. dialogue. Although still. It stands if.) 2 . metaphors. of the text on paper. blah. focus and emphasis. blah. As a body imposes itself so our body exposes itself. themes overlapping (or should we speak of tropes. making the caress orgasmic such that it makes even the word orgasm irrelevant. ? Watching the name of the rose I remember a remarkable sense of loss as the library burned and Aristotle's comedy perished. Durability. her and me. deep into the night. touch it. Always the fuck. if written in.

if they work at all. Fucking fuck. with essence. as when I drift off occasionally whilst being spoken to yet still in thought.. Not just 'past' but 'my past'. . I'm gonna mash your fucking face in. Schelling operates with pairs of opposites derived from Kant and Fichte freedom and necessity. At this moment we vent our existence as we experience the event of our past. though this is neither decisive nor indeterminable. it is the paper with the ink. Fucking in words. 2 . of the atmosphere of a time. Prose is not abstract but a concrete entity. in analogous fashion. No difference? Their very distinguishability as experience(s) denotes a difference . I'm sitting listening to a compilation tape. then go fuck. I'm gonna make you scream in pain as I contort your body in an agony of ecstasy. then go back to a favourite text kept on the computer.14 November '96. the words of others. The important thing about it being mine is precisely its mineness. Through the stream moments appear.handle the book. The fuck is the basic metaphor for the writer. Fucking come here you little bastard. and he uses them in such a way as to turn epistemology wholly into ethics. The fragments work.' (Samuel Beckett. In words. 'I am in words. the aesthetic sensuality of the book. fucking you. it simply enables the fact of identification to have possibility. eyes slide back and forth across the page. though it's only specific location fo me is 'my past'. Read a favourite fuck.Do we slide beneath their grasp? Or still stock still stock? stock-still-stock-still-stock-still-stock Like listening to the stream of popular music. Through the moments the stream beyond appears. essence and appearance .) This world of lifeless objectivity is identical with the Kantian world of 'appearances'. They stream past the eyes. I'm gonna fuck you and I'm gonna fucking make you want to be fucked up. is merely 'positive'. and as such the prose must be affected by the machine . I refuse to read Beckett now. of our duration. 'In appearance and by comparison with the methodological practices of the age Hegel's approach is far less philosophical than Schelling's. isolated in their closeness.the question revolves around the quality of that difference and only the experience tells us this. fucking with you. Fuck you. This is partly due to its being specific to me. The Unnameable. texts scroll. excerpts of another time.(oposites that coincide much more directly in Fichte's thought and his own than they do in Kant). the screen with the electrons. P. And in this ethics anything which is not the subject of praxis. the fact that the possibility exists of an identification. You fucking fuck. You. even if the words falter and tend to distance occasionally. I'm gonna fuck you up. Only through praxis does man come into contact with true reality. a favourite book. I'm gonna slice you up and stick you back together in my way.' G.Lukacs. The same applies to the fuck. made of words.10) Go fuck. That the possibility of identification exists does not mean that any final fact of identification results. the past stream of events of this event. At least he's fucking in words. you fucking arseholes. My fucking words.. you're gonna beg me to fuck you up. becomes a mere object (or in Hegel's terminology. quoted in London Review of Books. Pages turn. Fuck you.

2 .(This is all lies). 17th February 1997. You.

Sign up to vote on this title
UsefulNot useful